It's mid afternoon and today has been a curious unfolding of events. First of all Prat phoned from Paris en route to Copenhagen for dinner. As predicted apart for a few days and separated by a few thousand miles Prat has been reacqainted with his missing, missing instincts. Tempting suggestions of a Parisian weekend rendezvous offered to the same chick, whom this time last week he couldn't wait to be shot of. Of course I now feel guilty for calling him Prat - it's a bit harsh really. Hmm will think of new kinder, softer pseudonym in keeping with the Paris treat.
Crazy German girlfriend, Bratwurst, emailed me to tell me that she and long-term, live-with boyfriend had split up following a throttling incident. Throttling should not be taken lightly. Alarmed at her casual business-like notification - did she send a group email? I quickly emailed her back to enquire if she was OK. "yah yah, fabulous darling, I now have a slightly longer and skinnier neck - you know super-model like", she trilled as only a mad German bird could.
Potential French business partner emailed me to tell me that after long discussions with his partner in Italy, they were not at the stage of involving a "fashion guru" - his words for me - bloody Frog. I think their business plan sucks. Surely if one is a guru, they are to be obeyed and listened adoringly to - also in fashion speak a "must have" item. These Frogs have lots to learn.
Need to recover from BNOs (big nights out) at a faster pace. Last night met up with fabulous British girly friends - Maccers and Janey for Prat-whine sesh. Felt as though I let the team down, as I was less than sparkly and possibly as engaging as a bar napkin. Thankfully Maccers is a local at Public - drinking venue and with that position of influence there were plenty of more interesting folk to chat with. Theoretically this is the case, however when they happen to be Scottish with v thick highland accents it's more like like a foreign language lesson.
The previous night however I'd been in full flight - air kissing with gusto downstairs at the Maritime, at the Whitney biennial afterparty. Decided to skip the opening - always hordes of people, you can't see the art and I didn't fancy schlepping up town. Better to dine with friends then go to the party and nod in agreement with the thoughts posed by those who did battle the preview crowds.
My Euro-inspired air kiss nonsense did prove alluring however. Was whisked away by a tall, dark, handsome man (would say stranger but that would be lying) and invited upstairs to view a suite. Felt it was my duty as uncannily enough had been chatting over drinks that very night with fellow Soho House closing friend who hankers for hotel rooms. We were in the W Hotel's Underbar, drinking in the midst of a Starsky and Hutch fan club gathering and a Very Tall Woman Association meet; when he mentioned how he liked the hotel's rooms. On previous occassions this hotel room appreciation thing had cropped up, and I do believe we've discussed the merits of many hotel rooms across the globe. The principal suite at Claridges in London comes with Butler for instance.
Moving on to the Maritime, Roomy Hanker "Hank", asked if we could see a room or two. Unfortunately room showings are only offered between 9am and 5pm. Note this rules out trysting outside business hours. Thus with an invitation for a private view dangling, how could I refuse. It was the least I could do for Hank whom I'd had a great night with and was sad to see leave. Thus for your knowing pleasure Hank everything is in pure tonal coordination - browns and creams; almonds as token arrival gift a shade or two darker than the comforter and perhaps a touch lighter than the curtains. Distracted from my task however, I'm unable to provide any further details, other than to say it was nice but I think we can find better. Perhaps next time Hank, you can make an advance booking in whatever hotel we happen to be passing through.
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Woman obsessed with knickers; especially wee La Perla nothings
